


birds in flight (earth to heaven after rain)

by hito



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-01 20:46:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hito/pseuds/hito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is in heat. Um, apparently. Nobody is quite sure what’s going on there. Whatever, Stiles doesn’t care. (Seriously, you guys! No, seriously!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	birds in flight (earth to heaven after rain)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ayeward](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ayeward).



Stiles is eating lunch out on the stretch of lawn at the back of the school when Derek shows up. 

“Hey—Derek,” he says, looking around, but Scott has already headed back in. 

Eve Jeffries is throwing him a weird look, possibly because Derek Hale, once a convicted-in-the-court-of-public-opinion murderer, now just any old guy in his twenties—which Stiles is not saying is old, okay, but it’s definitely old enough to mark him as a bit of a sleaze in the minds of right-thinking educational authorities, parents, and possibly Eve—has come to the local highschool at lunchtime to track Stiles down and loom over him in front of God and all his classmates. 

A couple of the girls are giggling in excitement, but Eve tries to flag down a teacher. 

“Stiles,” Derek rumbles. 

“That’s me!” Stiles scrambles to his feet and subtly starts trying to whoosh Derek away from him, but Derek just stares at his hands before returning his gaze to Stiles’ face. 

“Yes,” Derek says, which is not helpful to Stiles in the _slightest_. 

“Did you want something?” Stiles asks in exasperation. “Because I’m pretty sure I can’t give it to you, and also, not the time, you should go.” 

“Yes,” Derek says, “I did.” And then, “I should.” 

He doesn’t, though. 

“Dude!” Stiles says, as Eve manages to attract Mr. Robertson’s attention and points towards Derek. “Was this important, because—“ 

“Yes,” Derek interrupts. “It is.” 

“But can it wait? Because you’re about to get arrested.” 

Derek looks over Stiles’ shoulder, where Mr. Robertson is speeding towards them, and says, “I’ll go,” and is halfway to the lacrosse field before the teacher reaches Stiles. Like, did he _walk_ here? 

“ _Mister_ Stilinski,” Mr. Robertson says, and Stiles would almost rather talk to Derek. 

*

“I told Scott you were looking for him,” Stiles says when Derek shows up at his house later. 

“I wasn’t looking for Scott, I was looking for you.” 

“Oh,” Stiles says, and then stops, because he has absolutely nothing to say to that except _why_ , which might be kind of rude, but— “ _Why_?” he asks incredulously. 

Derek takes a minute to think about it. “I don’t know.” 

“Okaaay,” Stiles says. “So why are you here now?” 

“I don’t know,” Derek says again, and shifts uncomfortably. 

“Well do you want to leave then,” Stiles suggests, trying to be polite, “because my dad is making dinner and I don’t think you’re invited.” 

“Probably not,” Derek agrees, and then he just stands there, staring at Stiles. 

“Are you okay?” Stiles asks, squinting at him, and now that he’s paying attention, Derek does look agitated, and kind of flushed. Maybe he’s ill, has a fever. Maybe he wants Stiles to look after him, although why anybody would ever want that, Stiles does not know, but Derek isn’t a person who has a lot of options in that regard. Maybe he’s delusional, which would explain his choice of Stiles as a caretaker. 

“I’m fine,” Derek says automatically, then continues, “I feel—“ 

“Sick?” Stiles prompts. 

“No,” Derek says. “I don’t know.” 

“You’re sick,” Stiles says knowledgably, rising from his computer and walking towards Derek to make him sit down, or take his temperature, or _something_. He’ll figure it out when he gets there. “But actually, it would be helpful to me if you could go back out and come in the front door, because my dad—“ 

He puts his hand on Derek’s arm, no reason, although he’s sure it’s first-aidy somehow, _support_ , that’s it, he’s offering Derek support, and Derek pulls him closer, making him gasp. 

When he looks up at Derek, his eyes are wide, almost all black, but Stiles doesn’t know enough about first aid to know what that means; and Derek’s hands are warm when he puts them on Stiles’ face, but they aren’t clammy, that’s good, he thinks; and Derek’s tongue, when he pushes it into Stiles’ open mouth, is wet and forceful. 

That’s good too, he thinks, that it’s wet, like dogs, do werewolves get sick like dogs, should he check Derek’s nose? he wonders, and then he stops thinking. 

“What—“ he starts after some amount of time, he can’t be expected to know, but then Derek goes back to kissing him and he forgets what he was going to ask. 

“I don’t know,” Derek says, tilting Stiles’ head back to get at his neck, body a warm line against his. “I don’t know what I’m—“ Stiles’ dad’s step sounds on the stairs. “— _doing_ ,” Derek finishes, shoving Stiles away. “What am I _doing_?” 

And he dives out Stiles’ bedroom window, skidding down the roof outside and vanishing over the edge. There’s a thump, but it’s a low roof, so Stiles isn’t concerned. 

Well. Not about that. 

“Stiles,” his dad calls through the door, rapping on the wood. “Spaghetti’s ready, come on.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and he grabs his phone so he can text Scott under the dinnertable and find out what the hell is going on. 

*

Scott shows up before dinner’s over, so obviously he has to sit down and eat some food before Stiles’ dad will let them go. 

“Dude,” he says, once they’re in Stiles’ bedroom with the door safely shut behind them. “What the _hell_ is going on?” 

“Did I not just text you that?” 

“Yeah, but,” Scott says, “I’m not the one Derek’s guerrilla-kissing, how would I know?” 

“How would _I_ know?” Stiles says in a muted wail. His dad is still downstairs. “Just last week he gave me the stinkeye for two whole days just for throwing McDonald’s ketchup packets out of his car while he was driving even though you had just squirted it all over the windscreen. This was not an expected development.” 

“That was such a bad night,” Scott says nostalgically. “You were so drunk you wanted to watch me climb into Allison’s bedroom and she wasn’t even there, and then you called Derek to give us a ride home, and then you took my ketchup away, and then you puked all over Derek’s shoes.” 

“I puked on Derek’s shoes?” Stiles asks, voice rising. “And he still kissed me? And you didn’t tell me?” 

Scott makes a sad face. “Not your finest moment.” 

“So Derek isn’t into me, right?” Stiles says, dismissing the events of last week as unimportant. 

“He didn’t kill you when you puked on his shoes—“ 

“So is has to be a werewolf thing! Is it a werewolf thing? Did he tell you about it? Tell me about it! Wait, it could be something else—” 

“Yeah—“ Scott says, face clearing. 

“—are there _fairies_ in town? It could be fairies!” 

“Uh,” Scott says, and pries Stiles’ fingers from his shirt, trying futilely to smooth out the collar. “That wasn't what I was thinking, and anyway, I’m not sure if fairies exist? I can ask Derek.” 

“Ask Derek,” Stiles moans, flopping down on his bed in despair. “I need answers.” 

Scott doesn’t move, so he waves his hand at the window, then remembers. “Oh, right, you can use the door,” he says, and changes the direction of his gesture. 

“How much is Derek over here,” Scott mutters. 

Stiles sits up to refute that, but Scott is already on his way down the stairs, calling out a goodbye to Stiles’ dad. 

“He isn’t,” Stiles tells the empty room, “Derek doesn’t come over,” qualifies, “not _over_ over,” and crawls into his bed fully-clothed, the better to hide under his covers and ignore his room: it’s silent, but he _knows_ when he’s being judged. 

*

“Derek says nothing’s going on,” Scott says, and if Stiles is reading him right (which he is, always) there’s badly-banked triumph there. 

“Derek lies,” Stiles says indignantly. “Did he deny kissing me? Because I would never kiss him, okay, and that definitely happened, so he is a liar who _lies_.” 

“No,” Scott says. “He didn’t deny it.” 

Stiles squints at him, puzzled. “So he said—” 

“You know. That happened. And nothing weird is going on. Like I said.” 

“I don’t understand the words that are coming out of your mouth. What is it that you’re trying to tell me, here?” 

Scott rolls his eyes. “Derek’s into you,” he says. “Deal.” 

“Did he say that?” Stiles asks, shocked. “He didn’t say that.” 

“No,” Scott says. “But I didn’t ask him. I’m not stupid, come on.” 

“You were supposed to help me!” Stiles says. “Letting him brush you off is not helping!” 

“Well, I didn’t really need to ask,” Scott says. “Everybody kind of knows already.” 

“Knows what?” Stiles squeaks in horror. He can feel his face burning. 

“You and Derek,” Scott says awkwardly. “You know.” 

“No, I don’t,” Stiles says, faint. “There is no me and Derek.” 

“I know.” He gives Stiles a supportive shoulder-thump; Stiles locks his knees so he doesn’t buckle to the ground this time. “But there will be, don’t worry.” 

“I’m not worried.” Stiles is trying not to sound too crazed, but he doesn’t know if he’s succeeding. “I don’t want there to be a me and Derek!” 

“Come on—“ 

“No! What makes you think I want that?” 

“Uh—“ Scott says. “Do you want me to answer that?” 

“No!” Stiles says, embarrassment flaring up again. “I want you to admit that you’re wrong.” Scott looks sceptical, so Stiles doesn’t pause for an admission. “And then I want you to go and tell Derek that you were wrong! What did you even say to him? No, I don’t want to know, don’t tell me. Just go and make it clear that I am not interested, okay? Because I’m not!” 

“Seriously?” Scott asks dubiously, wrinkling his brow. 

“Seriously,” Stiles says, choosing his own interpretation of the question. “That is what I want you to do.” He points at the window, mentally curses, and points at the door. “Now.” 

“No, I meant do you seriously expect me to believe—“ 

“Go!” he barks. 

“I mean, if you want me to believe crap like that you probably shouldn’t be around me when you’re drunk, because—“ 

“Why are you like this? I don’t even know why we’re friends.” 

“—I remember the stuff you inflict on me even when you don’t, and—“ 

“Go before you force me to drag Allison into this. Nobody wants that.” 

“—and Allison knows too, dude, are you _serious_?” 

They stare at each other for a moment that feels excruciatingly long, Scott’s face in its default expression of mild bafflement, Stiles trying not to think about what Scott can see in him right now. 

“Okay,” Scott says eventually. “Do you really want me to tell him that?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles manages, because he _does_ ; it doesn’t matter what he wants or feels, because the thing he wants most of all is for Derek not to know about any of it. “I do.” 

“Okay,” Scott says again, unhappy, but he leaves to do it, and that’s the important thing. 

*

After the ridiculously awful day he’s had, Stiles guesses it only makes sense that he’d dream about Derek again, just as the cherry. 

“Why are you so stupid?” he asks, breathy, as Derek licks down his neck. “Why didn’t you tell him it was the fairies?” 

“Fairies don’t exist,” Derek mumbles into the hollow of Stiles’ throat, spending a bit of time there before trailing his tongue down the centre of Stiles’ chest. 

“You should have told him they did,” Stiles sulks, because he’s allowed to be petulant when he’s dreaming. Nobody has to know. 

“Why?” Derek asks, but Stiles has lost interest in this line of complaint. 

“It was so embarrassing,” he moans, as Derek’s mouth travels further, Derek’s hands preceding it, tight around Stiles’ hips, and they’ll move when he wants them to. 

“Mm,” Derek says, which Stiles knows would be a request to continue if Derek’s mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied, because Derek always wants to listen to Stiles here. 

“You should have told him fairies were real just to spare me the embarrassment,” he says, and swats at Derek’s head. 

“Why were you embarrassed?” Derek asks, and he’s looking to Stiles for an answer though he’s still sucking at Stiles’ stomach, pulling the soft flesh into his mouth. 

“Because he thinks you like me,” Stiles whines, and he isn’t sure if it’s in protest at Scott’s misapprehension, or if it’s in reaction to Derek’s teeth setting in his skin. He throws a leg over Derek’s back, and Derek looks away, which is a relief, because that stare is intimidating even in a dream. Derek is kissing the skin of his stomach, low, and Stiles shudders, mind travelling lower, knowing Derek will do whatever Stiles thinks up for him. “He thinks we’re going to—“ Stiles can’t make himself finish. “He said I liked you,” he says, flushed from the words in his mouth, Derek hearing them even if it isn’t real. “Did he tell you that? God.” 

“No,” Derek says, tongue slipping into Stiles’ belly-button, and Stiles is distracted for a moment, sliding his hand into Derek’s hair so he can hold him there, tugging at the strands as Derek loops back around and up to catch Stiles’ nipple with his teeth, and Stiles jumps, cursing, suddenly awake, or—suddenly aware he’s awake, because Derek’s mouth is still on him, which means Derek is still there, so Derek must actually _be there_. 

Stiles shudders, but this time it’s in horror. 

Derek doesn’t seem to sense the change in mood, and Stiles can’t really blame him, because his dick his hard and pressing against Derek’s chest, and Derek can probably hear his heart beating fast, that’s all, nothing to tell him why. 

Stiles tugs at Derek’s hair again, trying to pull him off, and Derek releases his nipple, but he dips quickly down Stiles’ body, nudging against the places he’d licked as he goes, the places he’d sucked and bitten, and Stiles knows his heart is racing, because he likes it, he does, but he feels sick, too, and when Derek pushes his face into Stiles’ boxers, breathing in deep, Stiles panics, yelps, and knees him in the face, knocking him to the floor. 

It was almost accidental. 

He almost feels bad. 

“What are you doing!” Stiles hisses, because he wants to yell, but his dad is two rooms away. 

“I was,” Derek says, pulls himself to his feet and stands there, a silent figure looming in the darkness, body blocking the light from the window. 

When Stiles flips on the lamp his face is blank and his eyes are red. 

“You were doing it too,” Derek says. 

“I thought I was asleep!” Stiles says, not able to spare a thought for what he’s giving away. “Why are you even in my room, what’s wrong with you?” 

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” Derek says, but he has to blink a few times to force his eyes back to blue, and when he shakes it off he repeats, “Nothing’s wrong,” insistently. 

“Clearly something is,” Stiles scoffs, like there’s any chance he’s buying Derek’s line of crap, but Derek just shakes his head, looking bewildered, which—

That’s worrying, frankly. 

“I have to go,” Derek says. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, “before my dad comes in—“ and he’s watching Derek’s feet vanish out the window, and then he’s alone with his questions and his worry, his fading arousal and his incipient panic over what just happened and what Derek took from it, and his newly formed plans for the morning, which are to nail that fucker _shut_. 

*

“So,” Stiles says, when he finally corners Derek, later in the day than he would have liked. “What was all that about?” 

“All what?” Derek asks shiftily. 

“You,” Stiles says, “sneaking into my bed in the dead of night like a total freak weirdo pervert! If you do that again I’m calling the cops. I’m calling that dude from that tv show and I’m distributing your photo with his number attached.” Derek looks puzzled, so, “If you do that again,” Stiles concludes, “I’m waking my _dad_.” 

Derek looks afraid; it’s satisfying. 

“You can’t do it again anyway,” Stiles says breezily. “We fixed my window shut this morning. My dad’s really good at that stuff.” 

“It wouldn’t hold up against me,” Derek says, and Stiles gives him a _look_ , but Derek is anxious more than anything else. 

“Scott helped,” Stiles says, frowning, and he thinks that’s relief. 

“It won’t happen again,” Derek says. He doesn’t meet Stiles’ eyes. “I’m sorry.” 

“Okay,” Stiles says, spooked, but when Derek keeps avoiding his gaze it gives him a little courage. “So, uh—what was actually, uh, happening there?” He can feel his eyes trying to follow Derek’s lead and dart away, but fuck it, he’s better than that. 

“It was nothing,” Derek says. “I have to go.” 

Stiles is standing in the only doorway and Derek doesn’t seem willing to get within spitting distance, so Stiles feels he can safely ignore that. 

“Scott says you just couldn’t resist,” Stiles throws out, trying to provoke a reaction. Scott didn’t say that; he didn’t say anything, because Stiles was way too embarrassed to tell him any of this. “He says you were helpless against your own desires.” 

Derek flinches, and Stiles’ eyes widen. “That was—a joke,” he says. “Hah. Hah hah?” 

“You should stay away from me,” Derek says urgently. “I don’t know what’s happening, I don’t know what I’m going to do.” 

“Dude—“ 

Derek steps forward and puts his hands on Stiles’ arms, squeezing. “I mean it, Stiles. You shouldn’t be here.” 

“That’s ridiculous, you won’t—“ 

“Stiles,” Derek says, and it’s a protest, but then he drops his head to Stiles’ shoulder, drags his nose along the cord of Stiles’ neck, up to his ear, breathing him in, and when he says, “Stiles,” again, so close, it’s in an entirely different tone. 

“Hey—“ Stiles says, though he doesn’t know why he’s saying anything at all with Derek pressed up against him like that, lips warm on the skin under his chin. 

“I can’t—“ Derek mumbles, and Stiles does ask, “Can’t what?” but it’s with a detached interest at best. 

“I can’t stop,” Derek says, “I can’t do this, I can’t stop,” and Stiles doesn’t really know what to say to that, so when Derek shoves his tongue into Stiles’ mouth he sucks on it enthusiastically and hopes Derek won’t notice. 

Derek isn’t capable of noticing much, though, speeding straight past ‘can’t’ into: “Hands,” Stiles says vaguely, and he doesn’t expect a response, doesn’t want one, really, just said it because there Derek’s hands are, on his body, hello, and he’s gasping even before Derek’s hips start rolling against his own. 

“Hey,” Stiles says, letting his own hands venture under Derek’s tshirt, echoing the slide of Derek’s hands over his own skin because Derek should like that if he’s doing it, right? “You’re not going to freak out again, are you?” 

Because that’s totally what happened. Derek just growls at him, picks him up and slams him against the wall, coming up against him hard, hips fast and rough and good as they move together, and that’s fine, it’s fine, Stiles isn’t admitting anything, he isn’t saying a word, anyone would do this if they had the chance, if Derek just serendipitously dropped into their laps for the taking like this, it isn’t as if Stiles is going to turn his nose up. 

It isn’t as if he could say no even if he wanted to—which he does, okay, he does, he isn’t admitting _anything_. 

Stiles holds on tight to Derek’s arms, rides out the shuddering jolts and goes back in for Derek’s mouth, which is good, it’s great, Stiles knows how to do this and Derek is really into it, and Stiles knows exactly what he’s doing until Derek’s teeth scrape across his lip a little too sharply and he looks up into wild red eyes. 

He’s across the room before he registers the change. 

“No,” he says. “What are you doing?” He’s proud that his voice doesn’t shake, but he still looks around to make sure he’s by the exit. 

Derek’s unmoving, but he starts to growl, low and rumbling. Stiles watches as his canines lengthen. 

“I need you to tell me what’s going on,” Stiles says, mouth gone dry. 

“You need to go,” Derek says eventually, and it sounds like it takes effort. “I need you to go.” 

Stiles doesn’t flee only because he knows Derek would give chase if he did, and when he looks back over his shoulder as he turns the corner, Derek is still staring at him. 

*

“Derek says he thinks he’s in heat,” Scott says. 

“He couldn’t have told _me_ this?” Stiles asks. 

“I guess he didn’t know at first? And he says he couldn’t tell you anything, and he didn’t exactly say, but he implied that it was all he could do to—that he couldn’t—I don’t really want to understand that implication, do I?” 

“No,” Stiles says. “And I don’t want you to, thanks.” 

“He says you should stay away from him for a week.” 

“No!” Stiles says indignantly. 

“Really? Seems pretty easy to me.” 

“How come you aren’t in heat?” Stiles asks suspiciously. 

“I know!” Scott says. “I asked him, but he didn’t give me an answer!” 

“Such a tragedy for you.” 

“Yes—no—I mean—I could be in heat!” 

“I’m sure you could, baby.” 

“I could!” 

“Derek didn’t tell you anything else about it?” 

“No. He never mentioned it before.” 

“I’m going back over there,” Stiles says. 

“No, you aren’t,” Scott says. 

“I need answers.” 

“I want answers about the lack of excitement in my life this week, but I’m not going over there either.” 

“I need to know what’s going on! What if he legit goes crazy and comes for me through my _dad’s_ window? I can’t nail my dad’s window shut! I can’t explain that!” 

“Uh—“ Scott says. “You need to tell me why we’re doing these things.” 

“I’m going back over there.” 

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” Scott says. 

“You’re right!” Stiles says. “We’re going back over there.” 

Scott blanches. 

*

Most of the trek back over there is spent with Scott whining in his ear, but Stiles is used to that by now and his brain turns it into white noise before it has the chance to ruffle his feathers. 

“ _So_ unfair,” Scott says, “I don’t want to see this and I don’t want to know it’s happening, and Derek isn’t going to want me there anyway,” and Stiles hears: “Blah blah I’m afraid we’re going to make Derek mad.” 

“Derek is always mad,” Stiles says. “That’s just his personality, don’t hate.” 

“That’s _not what I said_ ,” Scott says, “and Derek is freaking out, you shouldn’t be going back over, I don’t know what he’s going to do,” and Stiles hears: “The thought of you having sex before I do wigs me the fuck out for more than one reason; please don’t make me watch Derek lick your face.” 

“That’s why you’re coming too!” Stiles says, because he is a genius and Scott needs to recognise. “So none of those kind of shenanigans will happen.” 

“I’m concerned, and I don’t think you’re getting it,” Scott says, and Stiles rings the doorbell. 

“I’m getting it,” he says, shuffling his feet nervously as he waits for an answer he already knows isn’t going to come. “I just don’t think it’s going to go down that way.” 

“You’re delusional,” Scott says. “Are you seriously that sure that Derek couldn’t be into you or whatever? Because—“ 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stiles says quickly, and dives off the porch to circle around the back of the house again and squeeze in that window with the frame that’s peeling away from the house enough that Stiles could probably get in that way even if the catch wasn’t broken. 

Derek knows what they use it for and he still hasn’t fixed it; it’s like he _wants_ Stiles illegally entering his home. 

Except for how he doesn’t, and would never. Whatever. 

“Hello?” Stiles calls once he’s inside, leaving Scott to struggle in awkwardly behind him. “Derek?” 

“A little help would be nice.” 

“I’m busy,” Stiles says, but he doesn’t move further into the house. “Derek? Scott’s here, he wants to talk to you!” 

“Lying liar,” Scott says, and hits himself in the face with a broken piece of windowframe. “Ow, splinters, fuck! Are you just going to stand there and yell all day? Because we could have done that over the phone. My mom was going to make pizza.” 

“Just until you get your ass in here,” Stiles says. “Afraid you’re going to break a claw on the window? I’ll pay for the gels.” 

Scott stops squirming around to stare at Stiles. “I don’t get it,” he says. “What?” and Stiles rolls his eyes, because how is it fair that Scott never listens to a word that comes out of his awesome girlfriend’s mouth and somehow still _has_ an awesome girlfriend? Stiles doesn’t get _that_ and he loves Scott, he does, but sometimes he questions Allison’s taste and self-respect. 

“I don’t have time for this today,” he says. “Come on.” 

“Hey, wait, don’t—“ Scott says as Stiles grabs his flailing arm and yanks, and wood cracks ominously and some part of the structure of the house falls to the ground outside as Scott pops through. 

They both stare down at the debris through the window. Derek won’t mind, and it was Scott’s fault anyway. “It was like that when we got here,” Stiles decides, and Scott grabs his arm and drags him into the house, evidently willing to brave Derek if it will get him away from the broken window. 

“Don’t touch him,” Scott instructs, and Stiles scoffs. 

Halfway down the corridor, Derek suddenly looms up in front of them, like what, was he lurking in the shadows waiting for them? Stiles likes being friends with these guys; objectively, he’s pretty sure he’s the straight man, and it’s a novel and welcome experience. 

“Just don’t—“ Scott says, “—do anything.” 

He’s gazing at Stiles meaningfully, though not in the way that Derek might have been gazing at Stiles meaningfully lately, not that Derek’s been doing that, not that Stiles is admitting anything, even though Derek might be getting his gaze on right now, and wow, Scott looks so very much like his mother when he makes that face at Stiles, how has Stiles never noticed that before? 

“You look like your mom,” Stiles says, and doesn’t stop to watch Scott’s face turn purple before he walks over to Derek. 

“Hey dude,” he says to Derek, stopping just out of reach, because he isn’t stupid or anything. “Scott says you’re in heat.” 

Derek is still looking at him, and Stiles did have a reason for coming over here, right? He’s pretty sure. He just can’t really focus right now; he’s too busy trying to hold his ground while Derek inches closer. 

“I do _not_!” Scott says from behind him. 

“And Scott wants to know how come _he_ isn’t in heat, is it because he still uses Axe? I keep telling him it stunts the growth. And I did actually want to know why you couldn’t have clued me in before jumping me in the middle of the afternoon like that. And in the middle of the night in my bed. A little warning would have been nice either of those times.” 

Derek stops moving towards Stiles, and his eyes fasten on Stiles’, clear and serious. “I didn’t know,” he says. “I didn’t know what it was. And I still don’t know what’s going to happen to me or what I’m going to do, so you should assume the worst.” 

“Hey, now,” Stiles says. “You’re not that bad. Any more. I’m not just going to assume the worst about you dude, come on—“ 

“I do not look like my mother!” Scott insists, thumping Stiles in the shoulder with his fist, and Derek growls and dives between them, sending Stiles sprawling into the wall and making Scott jump a good six feet backwards in sheer panic. 

“Or maybe I will,” Stiles says. 

“That was a shoulder-tap of brotherly solidarity!” Scott says, which is a total lie, but Stiles wishes Derek were buying it. “It was light! It was a love-tap!” 

Derek coils as if to spring, and Scott actually looks over his shoulder and considers fleeing back the way they came, which, no. Nobody is getting eaten today. Stiles is not about to watch his best friend get hunted down and torn to pieces like a fluffy bunny; he was traumatised enough when he had to watch the pack do that to an actual rabbit that one time, he’s not letting anyone turn cannibal on him here. 

“Hey,” he says, shouldering in front of Derek, trying to block Scott from view. “It was a non-sexual, non-romantic tap, okay? It didn’t even hurt. See?” He grabs Derek’s wrist and puts his hand on his shoulder, hoping it will distract Derek for a minute or two. “Scott was just leaving!” he calls in that general direction. 

“Scott is not leaving you alone!” Scott squeaks, voice sounding like he’s inhaled helium. 

“Stiles will be fine,” Stiles says, biting down on his annoyance as Derek probes his arm through his shirt-sleeve. He’s pretty sure he will be fine, but he doesn’t really want Scott here if that isn’t the case. “You’re just going to make things worse. I’ll follow you out.” 

“Okay,” Scott says. “No. No way. I’ll just—stay here.” 

Derek and Stiles both twist to look at him over Stiles’ shoulder. 

He clears his throat. “So, Derek,” he says, trying for brightness and almost making it. “Stiles thinks you haven’t told me anything about this whole heat thing because I don’t need to know, but I do, right? I mean, that wasn’t a question! You need to tell me about it now. For my own purposes, nothing to do with Stiles. Aaaall yours, buddy. I mean, not literally, not—“ 

“Why are you such an idiot,” Stiles says, because he always holds out hope that saying it will make him feel better about having to deal with the incontrovertible reality. 

It takes Derek a minute to find his words, but he manages it. “I haven’t told you anything because I don’t know anything,” he says. “My family died before it was to be explained to me. I don’t know much about it at all, just what I saw, and I don’t know if any of that applies to me.” 

“Okay,” Stiles says, trying to think about that, but it’s difficult to think about much of anything with Derek so close to him, holding on, twitching and distressed. 

“It won’t happen to you,” Derek says. “You’re too young. Stiles is too young.” His hand tightens around Stiles’ arm until it’s painful, but he lets go quickly once he realises what he’s doing. 

“It’s okay,” Stiles says. “I mean, not really, but it will be fine, we can—we can figure it out.” 

“Really?” Scott asks sceptically. “Because Derek is the one who’s supposed to know what he’s talking about, so if he doesn’t have a clue what’s going on I’m not sure—I’m not sure what we should do. Derek said you should just stay away for a week, but would that work? Would it pass, or would you just be worse then?” 

“I don’t know,” Derek says. “He should still do it.” 

“Does it have to be me?” 

“I don’t know,” Derek says, watching him carefully, and Stiles nods his head again and again, hands flexing anxiously. 

“Is it permanent?” Stiles asks quietly. 

“Sometimes,” Derek says, mouth twisting. “I—“ 

“Don’t know,” Stiles says on an exhalation. “Right.” 

“You should try to get it out of your system with someone else,” Scott suggests. “Or, is it weird? The sex, I mean, when you’re in heat. Would you need another werewolf? Not volunteering!” 

“I _don’t know_ ,” Derek rumbles, frustration obvious. “I have _never been in heat before_. Stop asking me stupid questions I don’t know the answer to!” 

“They’re only stupid because you don’t know the answer,” Scott says, and Stiles can almost see Derek’s hackles rise. 

“Okay!” Stiles says. “We’re going to go now. We’ll, uh, we’ll look into it, see if we can find anything out.” Derek drops his hands from Stiles and moves to let him pass, but he looks really sad about it. Whatever, Stiles doesn’t care. “We’ll, uh,” he says, low. “We’ll keep in touch, okay? I’ll call you when we find something out.” 

Derek nods unhappily, and watches as Scott comes up behind Stiles, holding up his hands as he slides past. 

“When, he says,” Scott mutters. “Hey, Allison read Twilight last month, maybe she’d have some kind of idea—“ 

“No,” Stiles says firmly, shoving Scott towards the front door, moving quickly and refusing to look back this time. 

*

There’s a surprising lack of information in the books Stiles has managed to procure since Scott became a werewolf, but there is some, even if it’s conflicting. 

He calls Derek. 

“This one says fuck or die,” Stiles says bluntly. 

“No,” Derek says, and Stiles isn’t reassured because he wasn’t worried. 

“So this one says it’s about pack hierarchy, and you can do it with anyone of suitable ranking, or any outsider who will, uh, respect your status, even if they don’t know of it?” Derek doesn’t deny this one. “And this other one says the alpha, uh, tries to breed their mate until the moon is full.” 

“Could be,” Derek says. “Could be something else. I have no idea which of the possibles it is, but I don’t have a mate, so that one isn’t.” 

“I’ll, uh, keep looking,” Stiles says, and hangs up. 

The internet is shockingly unhelpful when Stiles looks up ‘werewolves in heat’; he isn’t sure what he’d been expecting, really: less porn, or maybe less blogs with people roleplaying being werewolves going through their heat cycle as an excuse for porn—but he isn’t sure why he would have been expecting either of those things, since he isn’t actually new. 

He regrets reading so many of the blogs, but he would’ve felt really dumb if they’d turned out to be written by actual werewolves. As it is, he may never have a wet dream about Derek again in his life. 

“Hey, dude,” he says when Scott picks up. “Nada. Just a ton of emotional scarring. I would almost rather have read Twilight as my research. What’d Allison say?” 

“She laughed,” Scott says. “And said she doesn’t know anything, but—“ 

“But what?” Stiles asks, perking up. 

“Nothing,” Scott says. “I’m not doing it.” 

“Come on, you have to, what?” 

“No,” Scott says, “I’d cry at Derek’s funeral first, and I don’t really even like Derek,” and that’s how Stiles ends up sitting at Allison’s kitchen table as her father gives him a cup of coffee and a creepy smile. 

“So, Stiles,” Mr. Argent starts. “Allison said you had something you wished to discuss with me?” 

“No,” Stiles says. “Not to say wished.” 

“Oh,” Mr. Argent says, and takes a sip of his coffee. 

“More forced.” 

“I see.” Mr. Argent smiles at him. _Creepy_. “What is it?” 

“Well—“ Stiles says, and knocks back half his cup of coffee, scalding his throat in the process. Mr. Argent is still smiling when Stiles is finished choking and pounding on his chest. “Well—“ Stiles says again. 

“I can ask Allison,” Mr. Argent suggests. 

“No!” Stiles says. “No, that’s okay, I’ll tell you. So, uh, maybe there’s this, ah—nothing, maybe there’s absolutely nothing going on, so—I should—just—“ He isn’t buying it. “—tell you. You don’t know my dad, right?” 

“No,” Mr. Argent says, so Stiles figures it’s safe to ignore the deepening scepticism being thrown his way. 

“Okay, so—“ Stiles starts, and hurries on, because Mr. Argent is looking a little bit like he might throw his coffee-cup to the floor, dive across his kitchen table, and choke a bitch, at this point. “So what do you know about what happens when werewolves go into heat? Because there may be a situation. That has nothing to do with Allison, okay, it isn’t Scott! And it has nothing to do with me, either, but, uh, maybe it does, but my dad does not have to get involved with this, okay? That would just be really embarrassing for me. Yeah, so, Derek Hale is in heat? That wasn’t a question.” 

“The question, I assume, is what you should do about it.” 

“Yes!” Stiles says, delighted at this easy understanding. “That was the question.” 

“That will depend on Hale.” 

“Derek doesn’t know anything about it,” Stiles says, rubbing his palms nervously against his jeans, because he isn’t sure he should be telling a hunter any of this, even if things have mostly been peaceful for a long time now, and he probably definitely shouldn’t be going behind Derek’s back about it, but they’re out of options. 

“He doesn’t?” 

“He was pretty young when his family died, and he’d managed to pick up bits and pieces, but not enough.” 

“That’s unfortunate,” Mr. Argent says, finishing off his coffee and putting the cup on the table so he can steeple his fingers, all the better to make Stiles squirm. 

“Have the other members of the pack shown a noticeable increase in attraction towards the alpha lately?” he asks in a business-like tone. 

“Uh—“ Stiles says, not sure whether to be baffled or horrified. 

“Have there been any unexpected orgies recently with Hale at their centre?” Mr. Argent clarifies impatiently, and okay, horrified, for sure. 

“Unexpected?” Stiles asks faintly. 

Mr. Argent smiles. “I’ll take that as a no. Has Hale shown increased aggression?” 

“Um.” 

“Towards you?” 

“Not towards me, no,” Stiles says, relieved, but Mr. Argent doesn’t react like that was the right answer. 

“Increased aggression towards other people triggered by you? Towards other members of his pack?” 

“Kind of,” Stiles admits, oddly reluctant. “He can be kind of aggressive anyway? Not towards Allison! But it isn’t like his kicking Scott’s ass is a _stretch_.” 

“Were you involved with Hale before this began?” 

“No!” Stiles says, face burning. “What! Why does everyone think that?” 

Mr. Argent is amused. “Are you lying to me?” he asks, mouth curling up. “Keeping in mind that I’m not going to tell your father that werewolves exist because I’m outraged that a teenager is having sex.” 

“Sex?” Stiles squeaks. “Who here is having sex? Neither of us! Or, uh—not me. Presumably you—are, oh God. Nobody I know is even _thinking_ about having sex, not before marriage, after years of dating and, uh, checks, STD checks, and background and financial, and can I get out of this conversation now?” 

“I need an answer,” Mr. Argent says calmly. 

“No!” Stiles says. “I—He doesn’t even—He wouldn’t even want that.” 

Mr. Argent hums. “Well, that isn’t true, not if he’s fixated on you.” 

“Fixated?” Stiles asks, ignoring the rest of that, ignoring the nervous twist in his stomach. 

“If he’s displaying territorial behaviour towards you alone it’s likely. Has he made any unusual attempts to be close to you?” 

“Yes,” Stiles says, but doesn’t volunteer anything further. 

“Scent-marking?” 

“Um,” Stiles says, “not—really? Not—“ 

“Not yet,” Mr. Argent says. “If this is a new relationship he’s more likely to fight it.” 

“Can he fight it?” 

“He can,” Mr. Argent says slowly. “But he won’t succeed, not without help.” 

“Okay.” Stiles blows out a shaky breath. “Okay, I can do that. And you’re going to help a guy out, right? You’re not going to tell my dad about any of this.” 

Chris Argent lifts his hands in surrender and offers Stiles a quick smile. “I’m not going to go to the sheriff and start raving about werewolves,” he says, and Stiles decides to take that as agreement. 

*

It’s always difficult to take Derek by surprise, and he’s more attuned to Stiles than usual, now, so Stiles is a little surprised himself when his plan works—when he walks up to Derek, pushes through his boundaries, breathes through the flare of warmth and panic as he gets as close to Derek’s body as he can and reaches up to pull Derek down into a kiss. 

Derek goes from frozen shock to pleased reciprocation like a switch has been flipped, biting at Stiles’ mouth and tongue and licking slowly over the same spots in apology, pulling Stiles into him like he thinks there’s some way they can get closer. 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles gasps, but Derek just laughs. 

Stiles goes with it for as long as he can, fighting his way into Derek’s mouth, rubbing his hands over Derek’s shoulders and chest as he shoves him back to the wall, testing to see if Derek likes being bitten as much as he likes biting Stiles, as much as Stiles likes it. But then Derek is licking down to Stiles’ shoulder, taking in great breaths of Stiles as he goes, scenting, if not yet marking, and his neck is right there, open and vulnerable as he bends to Stiles’ skin, and Stiles has to reach into his pocket for the syringe. 

Derek spasms as it goes in, and Stiles presses down on the plunger immediately. There’s resistance, and he sucks in too much air as he bears down, as the liquid trickles through the needle into Derek and the base snails closer to zero. 

Derek’s mouth is still attached to Stiles’ shoulder, his body still hard against Stiles’ as he collapses to the floor. The plastic has left indentations on Stiles’ thumb, but the skin isn’t broken. 

“Okay,” Stiles says, “okay,” and gets to work. 

*

Stiles is still there when Derek wakes up. 

He looks around slowly at the chains holding him in place, at the bare walls of his basement, squints in the halogen lights, and ends up on Stiles, sitting huddled at the bottom of the steps. 

Stiles stands up, joints stiff from inactivity. “Hey,” he tries. 

“Hey,” Derek says, and Stiles winces at the amount of sarcasm that can be contained in one word. 

“Sorry,” he says, knowing it’s weak. “That was safe, I didn’t get it from Mr. Argent or anything, Scott gave it to me. It was left over from that thing with the Coach, you remember.” 

“Why would you have gotten anything from the hunters?” 

“Oh. Uh, I maybe talked to Allison’s dad about—“ Stiles makes a hand gesture that he thinks is meant to signify the Earth floating through the cosmos, but he’s too anxious to really figure it out. “—this whole thing.” 

“Really,” Derek says, thoughtful, which is a good sign. “And what did he have to say about it?” 

Stiles sinks back down to the steps. “He said he doesn’t think it’s anything to be too concerned about!” Stiles says, trying for lightness, but it doesn’t really come off. “He said it isn’t a mating thing, but you’re, uh, focussed—“ 

“Fixated,” Derek interrupts. “He said fixated, right?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, mouth dry, and when Derek doesn’t say anything else he continues, “So nobody else is affected, and it’s safe to keep you contained, and it will pass in a couple of days with the moon, but we do need to keep you contained or, y’know. I mean, you know, right?” 

Stiles hopes Derek knows, because he doesn’t want to say it, definitely doesn’t want Derek to demand a recounting of the whole agonising conversation that Mr. Argent had almost had to force on Stiles, by the end. 

“I know,” Derek says. 

“Great. So I can stick around for a little while, but my dad’s expecting me home for dinner, and I can’t be around you at all tomorrow, because it’s the full moon, and you’ve already proven you can pull that wall right down.” 

He tries not to look at Derek’s arms, at Derek’s tshirt stretched tight over his chest by the position Stiles forced him into, but it’s a losing battle. 

“What did Argent tell you about fixation?” Derek asks. 

Stiles drags his eyes back up to Derek’s face. “Nothing. He didn’t tell me anything.” 

“Okay.” Stiles’ eyes are wandering again when Derek says, “You don’t have to stay.” 

Stiles snaps back to attention. “Oh!” he says. “Okay, that’s—“ Expected. “Fine, that’s fine.” He scrambles to his feet. “I’ll just, I’ll get Scott to come over, okay? He’ll come over later.” 

Derek is silent, so Stiles bounds up the stairs awkwardly, and he knows Derek is watching him go, but there’s nothing else to look at this time. 

*

Stiles goes back over there the morning after the full moon. 

Derek is asleep, still hanging from the chains. He looks really tired. Stiles struggles to get the key turned in the lock, but the screech doesn’t wake Derek; he stays asleep until the loosed chain slides through the iron ring and he slumps forward. 

“Stiles,” he says, sounding surprised. 

All the hardware is still in place, but when Stiles releases Derek’s wrists from the cuffs his skin is scraped and purpled with bruises, half-healed already. 

“Sorry,” Stiles says abruptly. “I didn’t want to bring you down and trap you here, but I didn’t have anywhere else to take you.” 

“What are you doing here?” Derek asks, and he ignores the apology, of course. 

“I need to know—“ Stiles says, and stops, because he does need to know, but he still can’t imagine saying it. 

“What?” Derek asks, picking up the bottle of water Scott had left in the corner. 

“So, when Mr. Argent said the only reason Scott and Jackson and Lydia haven’t been trying to jump you for the past week was because you were into me, was he lying? Because you can say he was lying, but he seemed to be pretty accurate about everything else.” 

The bottle is empty, but Derek keeps it held to his lips with his head tilted back for a long minute. 

“I was surprised he didn’t take the opportunity to lie to you and try to kill me somehow,” Derek says, screwing the cap back on the bottle. “What else did he say?” 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Stiles says, because he doesn’t want to think about that yet. “I just want an answer.” 

“No,” Derek says. “He wasn’t lying. But it doesn’t matter. It isn’t important.” 

“Wow,” Stiles says, stung, and if that is true he never wanted to hear it. “Wow, okay, no.” 

Derek pauses, bent over to reach for a clean shirt Stiles left on the floor two days ago. “No?” 

“No. You don’t get to pull all this crap on me and then tell me that it doesn’t matter because you’re a werewolf, you get a free pass. You don’t get to climb into bed with me, and touch me like that, and, and kiss me and say it doesn’t matter. It matters to me.” 

“I didn’t want to,” Derek says, and Stiles is frozen with the sharp pain of having been right all along. “I didn’t want to make you do that, to make you do something because my biology didn’t give me a choice, because you didn’t think you had a choice.” 

“Oh—“ Stiles says, and the relief is a warm rush. 

“And,” Derek continues, nervous now. “I wasn’t going to do anything about it before, because—you’re so young.” 

“I’m almost eighteen,” Stiles says, and Derek smiles. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.” 

“I know what I want,” Stiles says, and he thinks he does, now. 

Now that it’s okay to want it, now that he knows he can maybe have it, if he tries, and maybe that’s cowardly, but give him a break, he can’t be brave all the time. 

He’s brave a lot, though, if he does say so himself, and it still feels brave when he pushes forward under Derek’s gaze, ignores Derek’s bitten-off protests about Stiles’ age, Stiles’ father, and presses as close as he had when he had known there was no possibility of Derek turning away, presses into Derek’s mouth easily this time. 

Derek doesn’t turn away. 

Derek’s fresh shirt is on the ground when Stiles pulls away, and Stiles’ shirt is wrinkled from his hands even though Derek gave up his hold on it quite a while ago, pushed his hands under it to splay on Stiles’ back instead, curious against his skin. 

Derek’s mouth is curling with happiness as he looks down at Stiles, and Stiles can feel his own face mirroring the emotion in response. He has to breathe in deeply to calm himself and regain a little control. 

“Okay,” Stiles says, “let’s go,” and he steps back so he can take Derek’s hand and pull him up the stairs, out of the basement, and into the light of day. 

end.


End file.
